


Speak to me shadow

by 35391291



Series: Guadalupana [4]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sentient Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 09:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: And maybe it's not too late. The earth still remembers his name. Maybe he can dig it out from his heart. Maybe it shouldn't hurt anymore.Things will come full circle. Paths that cross will cross again.





	Speak to me shadow

_Speak to me_  
_Speak to me heart_  
_I feel a needing_  
_to bridge the clouds_  
_Softly go_  
_A way I wish to know_  
_A way I wish to know_

\- Patti Smith: [Paths that cross](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cln_1lthtC0).

*

For the first two or three towns, he is almost invisible. He becomes a shadow, a flickering memory. He fades and he disappears and he is gone. But he doesn't care. It is too much trouble to be someone, so the name his mother gave him will have to wait. She meant well, but men like him don't get to be angels. So he will keep it hidden, safe within. He will bury it deep in his heart, along with everything else he has left in the past. Everything he can't have back. He will be no one and nothing. And he will get used to it. This is life now. Heartbreaking and bitter. Unavoidable.

If only he could stop. Just stop and rest, until he can stand still and speak. Until he can be. Until it doesn't hurt anymore. But he can't, he doesn't know how to. He has become too sharp and sad. And it's getting hard to breathe, and he is close to forgetting. So he holds on to his rosary, as if it could protect him and keep him safe from the cold. This is all he has left. But it's not enough anymore. He is searching blindly, always desperate and hungry, for the fire he knows is out there. He has seen it and felt it and almost touched it. It is both a mirage and a treasure. And he wants it for himself.

And here's another new town, but it's the same old thing, over and over. Everything that life has placed in his way so far has been sad or forgettable. But never beautiful. It's been years since that word has crossed his mind. So, why now? Why these lost souls, these angels with guns? They are fighting a battle they know they will lose, trying to make sense out of the grit and the approaching night. This shouldn't be beautiful. But it is. It turns out to be the most beautiful, tender thing he has seen, ever since he left his mother and her blessing and her love, and went out riding with the wind and the devil at his heels. It feels like a secret. Like home. And for the first time in years, he is truly here, without his masks. He is here. He is still here. And that fire is still here too, and it makes sense to want it. He has prayed for it. It's so close, so right. And he isn't ashamed. He wants to say it out loud. _Don't go. Stay here. Pray with me._ For everything that could have been. For everything they have lost. And for everything he doesn't dare to hope for.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and breathes in the landscape. The stars are rough like needles, and he keeps them close to his heart. Out here, the darkness could be anything, or everything. But it's not wrong anymore. It's like walking blindfolded, but somehow safe. The world has sent him a breathtaking dream, so that he can hold on to something. And nothing means what it used to. The night was the question. The fire is the answer, and the kiss whispers it in his mouth. It burns and it wounds and it learns him by heart. It keeps him right there, small and dark and tender, and it knows what he wants. It knows that he's had enough of all these fights and struggles. It knows that he doesn't want to let go.

Soon, the morning is waiting. The wind points the way, and he remembers the prayer. The signs are there, and he knows it's time. Maybe it's the end. Or maybe it's something else, something wild and fiery, like that little spark. There is a hand over his heart, cradling something precious. So close, so warm, like a little miracle. It's more than enough. Who put it in his way? It's hard to say. But he knows that life has made things even somehow. He belongs. He is here. He is still here. His heart might not remember tenderness, but his hands still do. And they will hold on, until all of him does. They know that he is tired of this pain, so they won't be rough. And maybe, maybe he can have something back. Maybe another chance. Maybe burn and start over. Maybe stay here and never let go. Maybe stop, and simply be.

And maybe it's not too late. The earth still remembers his name. Maybe he can dig it out from his heart. Maybe it shouldn't hurt anymore. And maybe, they will ask. The man with the knives, and the broken man with the sad eyes, and the Irishman, his blood reckless and familiar and alive. Do they get to pray? Do they get to have a flawed angel, somewhere among this pain? They will ask, and he will answer. His mouth will be gentle, like a promise. And he will say it once again, softly, to the angels and the wind and the sky. _Don't go. Stay here. Come close, come closer. And I will tell you. And you will know._


End file.
